Firsts
by Romanoma
Summary: AU. Firsts are unforgettable and sometimes quite regrettable, but without our firsts we could never have our seconds, thirds, fourths and forevers. Spamano.


_Mini ficlet originally posted on tumblr. I am a terrible updater, I'm really sorry iluguys. x_

_Kisses_

The first time Romano meets Spain's eyes he asks for an Armagnac on the rocks. The first time he smiles Romano's legs turn to honey, but he blames it on his third brandy and not the _Can Vidalet_ red of those lips dripping easy charm. He remembers the scent of him when he leans across the bar, sweet Clementine and a wisp of _CK Contradiction _winding around him thick like smoke and sweet like sugar. Face lit up robot-blue, Romano catches the breath of 'wanna cig?' against the pink shell of his ear and nods, hands held as Spain nudges his way around the bar to where Romano is sat, legs crossed at the knee, foot bouncing to the beat.

In a small second Romano catches Spain's wandering eyes appreciating his form, drinking and savouring, belly grumbling for more of the same. Hips like silk he swaggers over, confident in the cock of his brow and the tip-tap of his heels against sweeping marble. Romano's eyes examine the flex of feline-firm limbs and like his life flashing before his eyes he sees the future; legs wrapped around his middle, sticky flesh beneath his fingers, elbows under knees, curling toes, bruises of affection and then an afterglow, a hot, satisfying burn like good sherry on cold nights.

The first time they kiss, Romano makes Spain's lip bleed. He laps the oozing stain like nectar. Eager to share, their second kiss is more like they both want, brutally sweet and ash-bitter. Romano's fingers get stuck weaving through thick, curly hair and Spain smiles apologetically, retrieving Romano's hand to pepper kisses across his knuckles.

The passion grows like the heat of the rolling sun, fingernails digging desire into broad shoulders, lips plucking sighs, hips making desperate acquaintance. Romano's half smoked cigarette is poised between two fingers, ant-mountain of ash gathering beside the heel of his Forzieris. When they pull apart the obvious question tumbles from their tongues and fights with their fingertips and thirteen minutes later they topple into a taxi together tangled, one beginning where the other ends, withering sigh upon dulcet moan.

_Fucks_

The first time they fuck is over in six minutes and forty-two seconds. They don't make it to Romano's bedroom, Spain panting over the horizon of the stairs, the banister creaking and slippy under his grip. Romano is fascinated by the jiggle of his ass, delighting in the resonating smack when his hand furiously abuses olive flesh. He complains when he comes all over the mosaic tiles until Spain falls to his knees and obediently bends to lick the mess away, eyes wolfish while Romano stares in half-cut arousal and disbelief.

The second time they fuck they're shower fresh and still damp and Romano momentarily complains about his expensive floor getting wet before Spain has dragged him to the sheepskin rug. He rides him like he's at the Grand National, moans so loudly Romano wonders if he's putting it on, but he finds it hard to care with an ass that tight around his dick and a man with the sexual appeal of Adonis himself smirking like he's the greatest lay in history.

Filthy bastard, Romano thinks, dragging him down to torture his lower lip, easing the moan

out of him like cork from fine wine. The second time he comes is quiet, meditative and satisfying, Romano watching his expression morph the alphabet of ecstasy until he follows suit, vision blistering white in the explosive glow of his orgasm.

They're cocooned by one another when they come to, safe in heat and satiation, nuzzling noses like lovesick teenagers. When Romano remembers who he is he jerks away, sinking teeth into the bridge of Spain's shoulder, punishment for lulling him to such weak affections. Spain barely minds, moaning his complaint and shimmying closer, content to remain exactly where he is until life begins again.

_Breakfast_

The first time Romano makes breakfast he wants to make the 'how do you like your eggs in the morning?' joke, but he gets the impression Spain won't get it and jokes are never funny when you have to explain why they're a joke first so he sets up the cafetiere and whips up a cheese and tomato omelette with a sprinkle of pancetta while Spain lazes in bed delighting in the comforting ache in his lower back. He'd asked for a massage and laughed when Romano snapped 'hell no', moments later adding he didn't have time before work and would have to 'sort him out' when he got home.

Spain doesn't miss the connotation, grin harder to contain than an unpinned grenade. After examining every inch of Romano's messy bed, he'd wobbled downstairs in just his boxers after Romano - who was already dressed sharp as wit - and made himself comfortable at the kitchen table, yawning so catastrophically noisily that the Burmese lazing in a sliver of sunshine on the sill started and scrambled through the open window.

The moment the plate hits the kitchen table Romano is picking at the breakfast he just made for his new lover, Spain smiling dozily, perfectly content to let it continue like allowing a puppy to savage his favourite shoes because it looks so cute doing it and makes such adorable little noises at the same time. Romano ends up making another one for himself and graciously allows Spain to share it, but not before he's fished out the biggest slice of tomato for himself.

Spain is disappointed when Romano has to rush out, but pleased when precisely one minute and thirty-eight seconds later he calls him on his way into work and chats the whole way there. The conversation ends with a promise of a date and the best food Spain's ever tasted in his life.

_Dinner_

The first time they officially dine together Spain rubs his belly enthusiastically afterwards as they walk back from the restaurant, thoroughly satiated in a way that is so familiar and yet nothing like the satisfying warmth after a good fuck. Romano is recounting tales about his mother's cooking and Spain devotedly hangs off his every word, concentrating so hard on his lips he finds it hard to walk in a straight line and absolutely has to entwine their fingers just in case he strolls into the path of oncoming traffic.

Romano doesn't seem to notice for a moment between his 'fucking divine's and 'God-damn heaven'lies, but when he gives Spain's hand a little squeeze something in the middle of his chest starts to spin like a Catherine Wheel that's not nailed down. Romano doesn't cease talking - he seems to enjoy talking rather a lot, but that's okay because Spain likes listening rather a lot so he doesn't interrupt, he just smiles and nods and laughs at his jokes and admires the wrinkles on his forehead and the crinkle of his eyes and the way he swaggers like kings would fall to their knees in front of him.

When they reach Romano's door he invites Spain in for coffee. Before they reach the kitchen they've fucked on the hallway rug and broken the key pot on the hallway table tumbling into it in their passionate haste. Romano complains about the mess but he doesn't clean it up, tip-toeing over red shards and snapping that Spain better not cut himself because he doesn't want blood on his floor. Spain almost does it on purpose to see if Romano would fuss over him, but he doesn't want to compete with polished oak so he hunts down a dustpan and brush and does the dirty work before either of them have had too many glasses of _Barolo_ to see straight.

They spend an hour on the sofa kissing like teenagers and ignoring the X-Factor. Romano actually quite enjoys the X-Factor and so does Spain, but they're each more interesting than listening to wannabes warbling for fame. After falling asleep until the early hours, Spain finds a repeat to record then shakes Romano awake and coddles him into bed, amused when he staggers out again to brush his teeth and wash his face. The first time he sucks Spain's dick, tiredly but enthusiastically attempting to revive the mood, he falls asleep at the penultimate moment, snoring like a banshee and successfully flattening the mood.

_Fights (Spain At Fault)_

Their first argument starts with a text message and ends with a broken plate. It's a cliche, but

Romano has seen his mother hurl crockery across the room with the precision and accuracy of an Olympic javelin thrower on so many occasions that breaking extreme breakables is like second nature to him. The first time Spain calls him insane, Romano plucks his lunch from under his nose and promptly launches it at the opposite wall, telling him that he will damn well show him what crazy really is if he's so happy to bat the word around easier than a tennis ball.

Spain had risen from his seat, wary of the potential for various kitchen implements to cause severe facial laceration, his cheeks red and his brow furrowed, a mockery of his happy-go-lucky bounce. Tense, Romano's arms hang at his sides like a silverback's, prepared to unleash divine animal fury should Spain cross another line.

Then Spain laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs. And at first Romano is confused, head cocked doggishly until his lips twitch and his smile bursts like sunshine and he's belly-achingly laughing along with him, argument and anger long forgotten, swallowed by mirth as they clear away the mess together, chuckling about how ridiculous it is to fight about such petty, insignificant things; apologising, kissing, fucking out their remaining anger on the dining room table and breaking Romano's mother's antique gravy boat.

_Fights (Romano At Fault)_

When Spain and Romano have their first particularly _vicious_ argument, Spain creeps around the house like he's attempting to avoid active landmines. Romano owns every room; he is Uranos and Spain is Pluto - Romano has the throne in the palace because Spain is in the wrong and should be the one made to feel uncomfortable (in his own home usually), to feel like he has to work to make it up to him, to happily hand over the television remote at a moment's notice, to bake flavour-gushing cakes of apology, to bring him that specialist coffee he likes first thing in the morning even if he has to get dressed and go out very early to fetch and present it to him.

Today, the designer leather boot is snug on the other foot, content and self-satisfied. Spain doesn't revel in his victory, though he takes secret pleasure in the knowledge that _Romano_ is the one in the wrong this time. Incidentally, Romano is sulking, as he tends to do when he knows he's done something he shouldn't - more accurately, when he knows he's been caught out doing something he shouldn't.

The first time they have an argument that is Romano's fault, he makes Spain think it's his. Romano has the art of persuasion at his fingertips and his benevolent lover is so easy to mould to his will. That is until an enlightening conversation with his dearest friend France (Romano has never met France, but he _hates_ France) gives him an entirely different perspective on the situation, like the sun spreading rays of epiphany over the not-so-towering horizon of Spain's mind.

It's not a big deal, honestly, but Spain patiently awaits Romano's skulking apology - usually less an apology than an admission to having done something he probably shouldn't and then proceeding to list Spain's various and often unintentional misdemeanours. At precisely twenty-seven minutes past eight, Romano walks in with his arm folded, lobs a bunch of flowers on Spain's lap and mutters 'sorry' under his breath.

Both arguments end in two and a half orgasms and one a broken coffee table.

TBC


End file.
